


All the things I never said (but wrote within my mind)

by Catherines_Collections



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: But that's really just Arthur, Character Study, Coping Mechanisms, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Regret, in a nutshell, unhealthy communication techniques, writing letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 20:21:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7121215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherines_Collections/pseuds/Catherines_Collections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He writes letters. Pours over quills and parchment, and allows the ink to bleed into his skin and smudge his fingers. </p><p>He writes them all letters, sends them to his brimstone fireplace, and watches as the words burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the things I never said (but wrote within my mind)

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing but I immensely enjoy Hetalia. Some aspects more than others. 
> 
> I'll admit this is not my best work, it will most likely come under construction with many revisions later, but i wanted to go ahead and post it now instead of discarding it forever. Gonna go ahead and warn about the ton of probably historic inaccuracies so sorry for that! If you see one feel free to comment and kindly correct it:). 
> 
> So please enjoy and thanks for reading!

People ask him, if they are close and kind, why he always keeps pens in his pockets. He mostly laughs, tells them of story ideas he never wishes to miss. He tells them half truths and escapes the scene with a false nonchalance. After every incident he reminds himself to tuck in the tops of his pens. 

Not very many people ask, and it is a rare occasion when they do; he conducts his appearance in a way that does not lure in unknowns or inquiries. But of course there are always exceptions and he is never ready to explain no matter how many times he has practiced the scenario.

The others never ask, they know better than to ask.

He never fully answers the question. Instead he redirects the conversation to another point if he does not drop it at all. He says a lot and yet he saws nothing at all.

He will never tell of his passion for the letters he writes. The fact that words are magic in his mind. A way to feel again, to remember, to breathe. The words he needs most always seem to strike him at the most unconventional of times;Inopportune as they are he has learned that he never can, never should, resist their pull. He lets the words collapse on him like a tidal wave. Writes them until his brain is bare and what remains of his soul is empty. 

He will never tell and no one will ever know.

Sometimes he has no paper on hand and skin, he supposed, suffices quite well. It has held up for many centuries anyway. So he watches as ink blends into milky white and laughs at his coworkers warnings of ink poising. They have no idea what all his skin has gone, survived, through.

He does not tell those who ask of the centuries spent fearing for his life. Does not think to tell of the many ways a blade can cut and damage one's skin. He does not dare to tell them that not all blood runs red, if it runs at all. He does not tell them any of this, for many of them have never seen war, and hopefully, if he does his part, they never will. 

What he will never tell them of the quill and ink is: This, is my atonement.

.

He relives history every waking moment. He is compiled of millions of voices, thoughts, and opinions. So many different voices in his head for so long now, he often wonders why he has yet to go mad. 

He looks into his fireplace, and allows battles to replay themselves before his eyes. Allows himself a small moment full of memories, never mind that they are not ones he enjoys. 

He remembers pain. He remembers heart break and bleeding red onto white. He remembers the bitter taste of death on his lips and the sour hint that followed his many resurrections. 

He remembers bloodshed and battles, prosperity and peace. He remembers hopelessness and death around every corner, family members separated by sickness and what follows. He remembers cures and herbs, spells and prayers. 

He even remembers as far back as green meadows and small woodland creatures who took it upon themselves to care for him. Creatures who raised him on soft songs and green grass, creatures who taught him charms and words that felt like honey on his tongue. 

(He remembers time, never mind that he wishes he didn't.)

He remembers it all and so he grabs a quill and writes.

.

He's written the most letters to France. A country as old as himself among the many new and sparkling ones rising from the ashes they have both created. He never sends the letters, he does not expect Francis to understand their worth. The letters are not written on the best quality of paper, nor with the highest quality of ink. For he writes so many of them, and his fire greets so many of them, he deems such an escapade as a fanciful waste.

What he writes in the letters varies from moment to moment, from memory to memory. Sometimes he will remember a fond memory of what mortals would call a childhood, and he will record it with a whimsical remember when. Others he remembers hatred and the dirt that covered his face in battle, he writes of arrows and warfare, of tricks and lies, deceit and foolish dreams. He writes on passion. On the feeling of feeling and the majesty of such a breathtaking experience. 

He writes what he remembers and burns the words, watching as orange mares white, when he is finished.

.

America asked him once-centuries ago when America had still lived with him and the world made an odd sort of sense. When loneliness was not a cloak he draped himself in, and when his name alone struck fear into the hearts of men and gods alike-why he wrote the letters if he never intended to deliver them. Of course he was the world then and letters were few and far between, remorse the furthest from his domineering mind, but enough to gage a young Alfred's attention.

He simply smiled at the golden child and sat him in his lap, gazing out of his study window. "I write them for myself." he replied smiling at the young boy, "it is a small comfort of sorts."

Alfred had scrunched up his nose, "A comfort from what?" 

It had hit Arthur then that he was not knowledgeable to the full extent of the young nation’s innocents-to the lack of experience on warfare and division, the admirable absence of hatred and deceit that came along with such a new and fresh foundation-so he summoned a laugh and tickled the boy's tummy until his cheeks were pink from giggling.

A small hiccupping giggle and then a confident yet shy question, "Will you write me letters someday England?"

Blue eyes the color of fresh rivers and clean streams gazed up at him, a smile bright as sunlight accompanying skin as pale as fresh beaches had blinded him all at once.

Arthur had tried not to portray the ounce of heartbreak he felt in his laugh. Holding the child closer he whispered, with a reverence as if he were once again a few decades old and praying to the fae, "Let us hope it will never come to that my boy."

For the stars shone through the young nations eyes and there was something in him, something indefinable, something pure and perfect, something undiscovered, something amazing.

Something in a day not to far from that one, Arthur would come to loath.

.

He can never write letters to Matthew, can never pick up the pen for the second eldest. The child who worked so hard to please, and was rewarded with anger, isolation, and an unbreakable type of loneliness. He can never pick up his pen for the silver child, who never shown as brightly as the gold, but had never tarnished with time. The child who always smiled and was so delightfully heart achingly trusting. The child who saw everything and remained out of love and loyalty. The silver child with a heart of gold that he had melted down and poured into everything he selfishly desired.

He cannot pick up the pen because he is far too afraid to once again sully everything.

.

He writes to Spain in details. Writes of events and scores left unsettled. He records memories of colder days where the sun was unable to reach them and where blood was something lived off of. 

He writes in paragraphs, he writes in pages. 

On a rare occasion-with too many bottles scattered across the floor, and too many voices crowding his head-he writes on how far they have both fallen. 

.

He weaves poetry to Portugal. He writes to Germany. He records to Belgium and thinks through Italy's. 

He doesn't think about the price of his hobby often, but if he had to guess he would suppose he has spent a small fortune on it. 

He tries not to think about that too much. 

.

He can never bring himself to finish writing to America. Not with the memories that always cloud his mind. So he locks the ideas away in the drawer beneath Canada's unwritten letters, and let's them rot in darkness and dust. 

.

The letters, he believes, string from a blurred memory from centuries past, a time where most dates were unknown. The memory begins with bone deep emotions. A small fight with France. A quarrel really. His mind feels much too heavy for such a small territory, and whatever soul he has at the time is much to saddened. 

One of the women assigned as his caretakers clicks her tongue with one look at his face, walking away from his small frame with a low  now that won't do  before returning with a stolen quill, snagged ink, and a small unmistakable piece of torn paper. 

"It will be our secret." She whispers, tapping his nose and cherishing his surprise with a grin. "Just write down what you are feeling and then throw it into the fireplace. That always seems to make me feel better." With a tap on the head and a mischievous wink, she saunters off back into the corridor. 

Unsure of what else to do in order to rid himself of the unpleasant feelings swimming through his tiny body, he runs to his chambers and locks himself in. Licking his lips nervously he begins, centuries upon centuries built atop two small words:

Dear France, 

.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading and comments and kudos are much appreciated!:)


End file.
